


The Removal of Masks

by Callmesalticidae



Series: There is Nothing to Fear [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Hogwarts House Sorting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Businessmen, Character Death, Death Eaters, Gen, Gore, Gryffindor Tom Riddle, Initiations, Portkeys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24335107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callmesalticidae/pseuds/Callmesalticidae
Summary: James Potter is facing the worst. There is nothing to fear. (1978-1979)
Relationships: Euphemia Potter/Fleamont Potter
Series: There is Nothing to Fear [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1087368
Comments: 18
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

> Horror is the removal of masks.
> 
> Robert Bloch

_The cup was a portkey_ , James thought in the split second between feeling that telltale yanking sensation around his belly and being tossed too wildly for coherent thought. He had never liked portkeys, not when they nauseated him so badly and there were a multitude of more convenient modes of transportation, but it was difficult to trace a portkey and that quality had forced James to become more acquainted with them this year than he would have liked.

James hit the ground hard, almost as though he had been hurled into it, and the cup rolled out of his hand and into the grass. Sirius appeared a couple feet to his left, groaning but probably feeling better in his stomach than James, if their past experience with portkeys were any indication.

As a graduation gift, Cepheus Molloy and a couple of other friends had sent James and Sirius a basket of whiskey and cherries jubilee. The latter was notoriously difficult to preserve even with charms, between the ice cream and the flambéd cherries that both had to be kept in balance, and James had been surprised to see that Cepheus was capable of it.

It seemed, however, that he had not been.

As the nausea subsided and James got his breath back, he saw that the portkey had sent him to a graveyard. In the distance were a pair of large hills, one in either direction, and along the perimeter of the graveyard ran a low stone wall that was half-overgrown with moss.

“Sirius,” he began, but he was interrupted by a loud cracking noise, which was followed by another, and another--the sounds of apparition. The two of them were surrounded in the blink of an eye, at the center of a circle of ten or maybe twelve black-robed and white-masked figures: Death Eaters.

As soon as he saw _that_ , James gave a sigh of relief. They were safe after all.

“Well, Sirius, it looks as though we’ve gotten an invitation to something important,” said James, smiling, and he extended a hand to help Sirius up to his feet.

“Quite so, James. This is a momentous night,” said one of the Death Eaters. Behind their masks and beneath the subtle vocal enchantments that had been conferred upon them, it would have been impossible for James to tell who it was, even if he had been well-acquainted with their faces.

“Tell us,” said another. “Why have you been brought to a graveyard of all places?”

“We’re going to die here,” Sirius said, speaking before James could muster up the answer himself. “Not literally, of course, but…”

“You’re initiating us,” finished James, “and so our old lives are going to die.” James had never been told explicitly what the ceremony involved, but that was the kind of rhetoric that had always been used by Riddle’s people, from the day that he met Caradoc Dearborn. _Even the phoenix dies. A philosopher’s stone can only be crafted in fire. The tree of life is watered by the gardener’s blood._ James could pick up on a pattern, though holding their initiation in a graveyard was taking it further than he would have expected.

“Perhaps. We are offering you the opportunity, at least, but whether you truly become Death Eaters will ultimately be a matter of your resolve.”

That sounded...ominous. “What do you want us to do?” asked James, trying to keep his breathing as level as his voice. Not even Caradoc had explained to the Marauders what his initiation had required, but he had still done, and so had everyone else here. If they managed it, then so could James and Sirius.

Two of the Death Eaters lifted their wands, each pointing in the direction of one of the hills that lay in the distance. On opposite ends of the graveyard, the earth shifted and a pit, the mouth of a tunnel, opened up. “You must die before you can be reborn, and everyone who has died must be buried,” said one of the Death Eaters.

If that wasn’t clear enough, then nothing would be. James looked back at Sirius, hoping that he looked more confident than he was, and put a hand on his shoulder, as much to take comfort as to give it. There were two of them, and there were two tunnels. Whatever trial they were about to undergo, James understood, they were going to have to go it alone.

“See you on the other side,” Sirius said, as if they were just going for a stroll, and then they parted.

When James reached the perimeter of the circle, one of the Death Eaters held an arm out to block his way. “Your wand,” said the Death Eater. James looked behind him, where Sirius was apparently getting the same message, and then James swallowed, steeled himself, and surrendered his wand.

He wasn’t entirely useless without it, but he still felt more vulnerable than if he had been naked. On an intellectual level he knew that there wasn’t any danger, or at least not much. There were too many Death Eaters, and not enough unexplained disappearances in Britain, for their initiatory rites to be a deadly meat grinder. Besides, James considered, Caradoc had passed through the same gauntlet that James now faced, and he wasn’t nearly as adept.

The earth was soft beneath his shoes. The air was cool as he descended. Slowly, the tunnel became smaller and smaller still, forcing James to first hunch over and then to crawl on his hands and knees, until at least he came to a small chamber that was lit with a dim glow that came from nowhere in particular.

The tunnel sealed behind him, which was disconcerting, but there were no exits and so James sat and waited, and wondered if he should hold his breath. Part of him wished that he could blast his way out, and if he was smart about it then he could probably do the job, even without his wand, but he was also rather sure that it would disqualify him. Whatever the Death Eaters were looking for in him, it probably wasn’t the ability to dig himself out of the ground without a wand.

As the minutes crept on, the glow dimmed and the walls seemed to close in on James, but he kept his cool. If he had to wait, then he had to wait. Sitting in that murky, subterranean twilight, James thought he saw something shift or move at the opposite end of the chamber, but it wasn’t till he heard the clink of metal, the jangling of chains, that he knew for sure.

 _Clink-clank-plink_ , went the chains, and _clack-klunk_. “James,” he heard, in a voice that was too familiar. “James,” it said again, and light came back to the chamber, bright enough that he could see the face of his father. His arms were bound with chains, and his legs as well, suspending him in midair like a fly trussed in a spider's web, and James wondered how he hadn’t seen his father there before.

“James, come here,” his father intoned, his voice and expression sharper, more severe, than even in his angriest moments from James' recalcitrant childhood. James stepped forward instinctively, then hesitated as he saw the heavy ledgers and sharp quills and bottles stinking of potion embossed with the family name, all interwoven with the chains. He could see how the chains were cutting into his father's body, constricting him painfully, but the older wizard didn't even seem to notice.

“You need to come up here and take my place,” his father said, and more chains grew out from the wall, slithering across the ground like snakes and click-clacking as they moved. From their ends grew sharp-pointed mouths like a double-spring bear trap, and the chain-things gnashed their metal teeth.

James yelled and stepped back. What? What was happening? Why—

“It’s time to shape up,” his father said. “None of this running around, getting in trouble like you have been. It’s time to be a man. I need you to come here, James. Join me. You'll barely feel the pain, after a while!” The chains roiled and snapped at the air like hungry serpents, the metal shrieking.

James' eyes went wide. "No, I-I d-don’t…”

“Say goodbye to your friends. Now! They’re holding you back. They’re making you unfit, they're hurting us. You're hurting us.” The chains around his father tightened further, unbearably tight! He saw his father's leg break. "Take my place!"

“I can’t, I _can’t_ , please...”

“You’ll be here forever, trapped with me, trapped like me,” his father said, inches away from his face. James tried in vain to back away, but the wall wouldn’t budge and his fingers only dug further into the dirt.

James turned around and tried to claw his way to the surface, tried to run, he begged for someone to release him, and through it all he was heedless of how the chains never quite got close enough to touch him, even as they took myriad other forms and grew more horrifying with every passing moment. Even as they began to tear his father apart.

“P-Please, please...” James cried, nearly beyond words, and then the earth above their heads moved away and a great light shone down upon them. His father and the chains twisted in on themselves and transformed, taking another shape entirely, a small, twisted thing that didn’t look fully human, that was disfigured and mutilated and weak.

“Riddikulus!” someone incanted, and the horror-shape changed form again, becoming the pale corpse of a young man who stared blankly ahead and said, grinning, “Death is only an adventure.” Then James felt fingers enclose around his, and he was lifted out of the pit. Still lying on the ground, not yet in enough control of his nerves to get to his feet, James turned his eyes upward to see his rescuer. He immediately recognized the face that looked down at him.

How could James _not_ recognize it? There were few who were more famous in Britain, or more important.

“I am very pleased with you,” Tom Riddle said, dressed in the black robes of the Death Eaters, and James felt a rush of pride. There had been rumors, of course, that Riddle was one of their own, that he was a Death Eater, even _the_ Death Eater, the very first of them, but to see it confirmed, to know that James had met with his approval...

“It was a b-b-boggart,” James said, in case that was part of the test as well, to know what he had faced, and Riddle, still standing above him beside the mouth of the pit, nodded.

“Yes. We must all face our darkest fear at some point, or waste our lives in running away from it. The boggarts allow us to tailor the experience to each initiate, and sending you there without a warning makes you more vulnerable. As a Death Eater you will learn to conquer your fear, but tonight you have looked it in the eyes and learned that your fear can do nothing to you if you do not let it.”

Riddle smiled again, and helped James to his feet. Silently, they returned to the circle, where Sirius was sitting beside a headstone, wrapped in a cloak and drinking a mug of hot chocolate. Another Death Eater gave James his own mug, and he thought he had never felt more grateful than he had at that moment. “I will be forthright with you: the cause will demand much of you,” Riddle said as James drank chocolate beside the tombstones. “You faced a boggart tonight, and it was the most terrifying, heart-wrenching thing you have encountered. By definition, this is so. But sooner or later you will discover that you have been only a child up till tonight, and your fears were the fears of a child. There is so much worse in this world, and you must bear it—but if you give yourself entirely to the cause then we will always be here. There are worse boggarts in store for you than this one, but there is also our fellowship.”

As soon as the mug was empty, Riddle vanished it and then handed James his wand. “It is time to take the oath,” he said, and James raised his wand to his heart before Riddle began:

“With those gathered here as my witnesses,” Riddle began, and James repeated, “I swear this oath, that I will fight, and suffer, and die for the cause of the Death Eaters, and in the service of this cause, I swear: To never turn my wand away from our enemies, lest my arm be torn from my shoulder. To never speak out against my brothers and sisters, lest my tongue be torn from its roots. To never falter in my dedication and loyalty, lest my heart be torn from my chest. To never...” Riddle continued, and as James repeated the oath, a brilliant red light streamed from his wand. He spoke, and the light took shape, and the light burned into his skin, and the Mark manifested itself on him: the image of a phoenix, wrapped in flame, its beak situated just above his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

They ate, drank, and made merry that night, James and Sirius and their new-forged family, but then the night passed away like all the nights that had come before. New mornings came after it, and new days, one after another, but life did not continue as it had once had. Now there was the struggle to which they had been called, and there was valuable work that they could perform for the Death Eaters.

Between James’ carefully-budgeted trust and Sirius’ considerably larger inheritance from his late and politically eccentric Uncle Alphard, they had enough galleons to set up a shop, P & P Curious Enchantments and Enchanting Curiosities. It was a respectable business for the most part, for all that it was located a stone’s throw from Knockturn Alley, but the import-export end of things let them smuggle in the odd crate of contraband and there were some custom enchantments which they were only willing to apply for a very special, well-vetted kind of customer. The pranks of their Hogwarts years had been lovely fun, but it was nice to be able to apply their talents more meaningfully.

Today, like most Mondays, James was alone in the shop. Sirius had his work at the DMLE, where he would hopefully rise to a position of influence and information, but James had been asked to dedicate himself fully to the business. Mondays were doubly lonesome, though, for the reason that everyone was back at work. The weekends could be busy, even if the shop was always closed a bit on Sundays to give James and Sirius time to eat with his parents, and customers would begin to visit in greater numbers as the week wore on, but it wasn’t terribly unusual for a whole Monday to go by without so much as a single visitor.

Today, James made it as far as half-past-noon before a customer entered. He was tall and thin, with dull, utilitarian robes, and earthy brown gloves. There was a _sense_ that James got around the man’s head, and he immediately recognized that the man was wearing a Friendly Face, and from the special customers’ inventory at that.

The Friendly Faces were a kind of enchanted mask that James and Sirius had designed only a few months ago, which could copy someone’s face but wouldn’t do it _well_. It was strictly a joke item, but only because the real stuff would both open them to legal trouble and reveal what they could really do: the _good_ stuff had already been used, at least twice and maybe more times that they hadn’t heard about, to let a Death Eater slip undetected through a cordon or out of a monitored area. The Friendly Faces would never replace polyjuice, but they could make Rosier or Whitehorn look like any old wizard on the street, so long as that wasn’t anybody in particular.

If you were acquainted with the Friendly Faces, though, as James surely was, then it was easy to tell how something was just a little bit off—James thought there was a kind of slight purple tone if you knew what you were looking for, and Sirius thought the skin just looked a bit waxy, but both agreed that there was something about the Faces that just seemed wrong. Their cell leader had been informed, and the Death Eaters knew not to overuse the Friendly Faces, and it hadn’t caused them any trouble yet.

For a moment, James wondered if somebody had stolen a Friendly Face (or worse, a crate of them) and the aurors had come to shut down their operation with a few ounces of vitriol of volatility, but the man glanced around to double check that no one was looking, and surreptitiously tapped two fingers to his chest before adjusting the collar of his cloak. That mostly put the damper on James’ worries, and they were abated entirely when the man pressed his middle finger against James’ wrist as they shook hands.

Just paranoia, then. Well, he shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the work was getting to him.

“May I interest you in a business proposition, Mr. Potter?”

“Of course. Right this way,” James said, and he led the man into one of the upper rooms, the secure one that was ostensibly for product testing but also for meetings just like this one. They took seats around an oaken table and at its center the man set down his handbasket, which James had previously worried was full of some potion or another. Then the man drew a finger along his forehead, one end to the other, and the Friendly Face twisted and peeled away like burning paper. James nearly fell out of his seat.

 _Riddle_ had come to meet with him—had come to meet with him and, James saw as the cloth was lifted away from the basket, had arrived bearing fruit. Cherries, in fact.

“Please, indulge yourself,” Riddle said, rolling a cherry around between his thumb and index finger. It may be humble fare, but sometimes it is the simplest pleasures that are easiest to appreciate.”

The cherries, to James’ delighted surprise, did not have pits.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” Riddle proclaimed as James was reaching for another cherry.

“Anything.”

Riddle smiled, his expression warm and approving. “I am given to understanding that you possessed an invisibility cloak at Hogwarts. It is also my understanding that this cloak is something of a family heirloom, that it has been passed down, father to son, over many generations.”

He fell silent for a moment, long enough for James to notice the pause and nod, and then continued. “While you may think of it as nothing more than a curiosity, it is my belief that the cloak is an artifact of some power—invisibility cloaks do not usually retain their potency for so long—and I would be honored if you might lend it to me for a short period so that I could study it and untangle its mysteries. Such magic could be of great assistance to that common cause in which we are all engaged.”

James frowned and looked away, but only for a moment; Riddle preferred for the other Death Eaters to look _at_ him, as equals did. “My father confiscated the cloak in the summer before my Seventh Year. He...didn’t like how I was using it. I would give it to you if I could, but—”

“Of course you would,” Riddle said agreeably, and he made a small waving motion with his free hand, the one that wasn’t picking out another cherry. “Ask him.”

“He won’t—”

Riddle smiled. “Simply ask. Give your father the opportunity, at least, and if he denies you then come back to me and say it.”

“But if I come back to you empty-handed, then—”

“The failure will be his, and not yours. Who would I be, if I held a man responsible for the actions of his father?” James hesitated, and Riddle leaned over to put a hand on his shoulder. “You are afraid,” Riddle remarked, and James had no choice but to nod in acknowledgment.

“Fear is a weakness, as I have told you many times before,” Riddle continued. The rebuke came like a slap, and carried a shameful sting. “You must raise your wand as though the curse which will kill you has already been cast, and you have but one decisive moment in which to work your will. He who acts thusly is immortal, for he has put his life in the mask and the mask will never die—but the one who is afraid has succumbed to the living death.” His face was hard now, like stone, and his fingers tightened around James’ shoulder.

Riddle stood, and slid the Friendly Face back over his own. “I cannot properly express how important the cloak may be,” he said in a voice which was no longer his own.

James closed the shop as soon as Riddle left. It was hours early, but his father usually took the Floo home for a tea break around this time, and as much as James would have liked to delay things, Riddle had said that this was important. After taking a moment to steel himself, James went to his office fireplace and opened a connection.

“Dad, are you in?”

“James?”

“Yes!” James smiled, and hoped the expression was carried over on his tone. “May I join you for tea?”

“Of course!”

The discomfort of the Floo was but a passing thing, and then James was back again, back where he’d grown up. He had been here only just yesterday, and yet… It was nice to return to, no matter how often he did so.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” His father asked, his face adorned with a mild smile, uncertain but pleased. “I thought I’d seen the last of you till next Sunday.”

“Do I need an excuse to come say hello? Besides, I was hoping to—that is, I was hoping I could ask for some, ah, advice regarding the store. I hate discussing business on Sundays.”

His father’s smile grew larger and fonder. “It _is_ nice to have a little separation between the private and public sides of our lives.”

James nodded, then reached out to clasp his father’s hand. “Where’s Mum? With the ‘Witches Auxiliary’?”

“Is it a day of the week?”

James chuckled. “I see some things haven’t changed. You know, when I was a student, she hardly wrote about anything else? Well, you, of course, but other than that, just Mrs. Whatsit and Mrs. Black and their fundraising for St. Mungo’s or what have you.”

“It’s important work, I suppose. Wizards do keep imploding their heads.”

“Hm. Well, yes.” James helped himself to some tea. He knew where it was kept, naturally. Oh, good, they still had Earl Grey.

“What is it that you need help with?”

“Two things. First, I’m looking to import a shipment of silk ash to experiment with, you know, something to improve the functionality of instant darkness powder, and the price point for bulk is better imported from Hispanapule, rather than Carpathia, but I don’t know if the quality would match. I was wondering if you had any experience with Hispanapulitano silk?”

“Carpathian silk has a certain artistry, and I’d wager that the ash is nothing to sneeze at, either. If you’re concerned about the details, then I suggest that you eat the extra cost.”

James nodded, and sipped his tea. “That does make sense. Business is going well, so I suppose we can take that hit for now… Depends on the end product performance tests.” He took a deep breath. “The other thing I was hoping to do with the shop is expand into some, ah, textile-based items. You know our smelling scarves have been selling well. I want to try and diversify that line, but I’d like to do some research into similar items beforehand. Just cursory. I know we’ve got that old cloak somewhere. In the attic, maybe? I’d like to borrow it. It would be helpful with the research and development.” He tried to keep his tone light, and hoped that the anxiety in his heart didn’t show too much on his face.

“...I don’t think that’s possible.” His father’s smile melted like butter. “Lots of boxes to go through, you know… Don’t know where it is at the moment…”

James maintained his own smile. “I’m sure we can find it! Couldn’t take too long.”

“...Might take longer than you think.”

“That’s fine. It’s worth it, don’t you, I mean, I think it’d be worth it. For the good that could come of it?”

“Could do a lot of ill as well.”

“It won’t,” James assured him.

His father ate a cucumber sandwich, very slowly, very deliberately, and said nothing. James tapped the edge of his teacup impatiently. He looked away, and he looked back. His mouth twitched as he tried to maintain his smile. “I’ll hardly be using it to play pranks, Dad. I’m a grown man.”

“Then accept my answer like one,” his father snipped off.

“But Dad, why _not_? It’s for the business?”

“And I know what that business is _for_ ,” Fleamont replied, his tone still even, but becoming strained.

“I, Sirius and I have worked hard on that shop,” James said, trying to ignore what he just heard. If his _father_ knew, who else…? The very idea made his blood run cold.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Dad, I need the cloak! I’ll be very careful with it.”

“What do you need it for?”

“For the shop, as I said. Research.”

A lengthy, pregnant pause, and then: “I don’t believe you.”

“You’re calling me a liar!?” James said, his voice rising.

“As much as the necessity of it shames me, yes, I am calling you a liar.”

“Why?” James challenged. “Why do you think I’m lying?”

“Because I know what it is that you do! I know what company you keep. I know what you _are_ , James.”

James flushed with shame and anger. “Out with it, then! What do you think I am?”

“A Death Eater, James!” he shouted.

James grimaced. “I’m not,” he said, as if he might be able to deny the sun into darkness.

“Can you prove it? Show me I’m mad and I’ll give you the _world_ in return.”

James went quiet, and very still. “...I don’t have to.”

Fleamont looked away, his eyes welling up with water. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going to turn you in, not my only child. But I will not give the cloak to you. I will not give it to _him_.” He sighed. “Even then, all those years ago, I knew what you were getting into. It was all I could do to...find some _pretext_ , and take back the cloak before it was handed over for some damnable plot.”

“Fine, then,” James said, his tone hard and his words clipped. “If that’s how it is. I’ll be off.” And without another word, without even a goodbye, James rose from the table and walked off toward the fireplace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a long time, the Carpathians and Balkans were ruled by dark wizards. The region has been a hotbed for dark activity ever since, and dark magic is an easy go-to for nationalists and xenophobes because it hearkens back to the days when their people were the terror of Europe. “Greater Carpathia” explicitly casts itself as a successor to this dark kingdom (but is pragmatic enough to know that too much revanchism will see them toppled by more powerful neighbors).
> 
> Hispanapule is discussed in the notes to [chapter 5 of "According to His Own Nature."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15989558/chapters/38050274)


	3. Chapter 3

That night, James hardly slept, and early the next morning he felt his mark burn. Riddle wanted to hear from him—did the man ever sleep? He disapparated immediately to Riddle’s flat in Cardiff. Riddle was eating breakfast at a small card table. On his plate was a hardboiled egg, a few carrots, and a piece of toast.

“I couldn’t convince him. I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry. I…” What could he say, really, but the litany of his failures?

Riddle nodded. “I expected as much,” he said, and James felt his shoulders slump. “I do not think any less of you for failing to accomplish the impossible, James, though I cannot say that my lack of surprise entirely means a lack of disappointment.” Riddle paused for a moment, long enough for the words to hang in the air and burn there, and then he rose from his seat. “Regardless, there is another approach possible, if you are willing to help.”

The force of Riddle’s gaze seemed as weighty as a basilisk’s stare, but the sting of his shame forced a response past his petrification. “Anything,” James said.

“Without speaking too highly of myself, we can agree that I am, ah, an agreeable person. I have parleyed with the goblins. I have united the werewolves. I have inspired _you_.”

James nodded.

“If I can but speak with your father, I could surely sway him.”

“I… But how? He hates you.” _He hates_ _me_ , James didn’t say, though the fear was growing inside him. “He would never agree to a meeting with you.”

“That much is true,” Riddle admitted. “The meeting must be unexpected.”

“You...want me to bring him here?”

“Not at all. Your father must feel comfortable. He must be at ease. This means that we must be on, shall we say, his territory. We must meet him at Paddock House.”

“But he’d never let you through the wards!”

“Are _you_ allowed through the wards?” asked Riddle, and then, after James nodded, he said, “Fleamont could disown you, but until that happens you are a member of the Potter family by blood. Others may be given permission to enter Paddock House, but _you_ have that right by default, and must be specifically excluded if you are to lose it.”

At the mention that he might be disowned, James had turned away, and he didn’t look back till Riddle put a hand on his shoulder. “It was once the tradition of Hogwarts graduates to embark on a Grand Tour, a sort of long trip through the rest of Europe and the environs for the purpose of broadening their education beyond what they had acquired at home,” Riddle said, and James nodded. His parents were old enough to have participated, though it was James’ understanding that between then and now the practice had ended.

“I undertook something like that myself, though my travels engaged me for many more years, and across more countries, than most ever go,” continued Riddle. “Among other things, it was an opportunity to delve deeply into the Dark Arts.”

“I don’t understand. What are you getting at?”

“By _blood_ , you are a Potter—and blood magic is Dark magic, where it has not been made acceptable by the weight of longstanding tradition. As it happens, during my time in Carpathia I was taught a ritual which can align my blood to yours, and yours to mine, which is to say that, afterward, the wards at Paddock House would recognize me as a Potter.”

“And you could just...walk through.”

“Indeed. However, the ritual requires the consent of both parties. Family is a _gift_ , you could say, and the ties which bind cannot be stolen in this manner.”

“And then you’d just…”

“Walk in,” Riddle said, “like a dream through moonlight.”

“I don’t know.”

“This is the only way that I’ll be able to speak with your father and convince him,” Riddle said, and then, “Oh, James, forget about the cloak. Think about your father. Think about yourself. I could _convince him_. Not just about the cloak, but about everything! Give me an hour with him, and he will be enlightened. He will understand, and you will be there to pull both of your parents out of the boggart-pit after they have seen the justness of our cause. As I did for you that night, you will do for them, and your family will be whole again.”

“What does the ritual involve?”

“Milk, and blood, and agony, but I have faith that you will be strong enough to bear it.”

Riddle had not lied, not exactly, but “agony” had been an understatement. Where his and Riddle’s palms had been sliced open, there was a scar like James had never seen before, bold and black and straight, and the potion James had drunk burned deep in his belly with an unquenchable fire. For hours, James thought he was dying.

It had taken time to brew the potion, and more time for James to recover from its most immediate effects, but by nightfall he could stand again, and soon after he could walk and hold his wand.

“Are you ready?” Riddle asked, and James nodded.

It was raining in sheets when they arrived at Paddock House and walked through the gates. As they ascended the front steps, the door opened. James smiled. So did Riddle.

“Fleamont and Euphemia Potter,” Riddle said. “What a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

James’ parents were pale as ghosts, standing in the doorway. Euphemia’s eyes flicked to James and back to Riddle. Fleamont cleared his throat several times, then said, “Wizen Riddle. What do you want with us?”

Riddle flashed a toothsome smile. “James has been such a good friend of mine, you know, so when I heard that there had been some trouble here, well, I just had to come and see if I couldn’t smooth things over.”

“It’s only a family matter.”

“Oh, but we’re family now, if you couldn’t surmise.”

James shifted uneasily and cast a glance at Riddle. He hadn’t realized that the man would just...say it, and if it were possible for their skin to turn even more gray, the Potters’ would have done so.

Then Euphemia spoke up. “We’ve never done anything to harm you or yours, Riddle. We’ve always just minded our own business.”

“You know,” Riddle says idly, “if you moved the borders just a little further east, you’d be one of my constituents. We’re practically neighbors, wouldn’t you say?”

Fleamont gripped Euphemia’s hand. “I can’t dispute geography. This has been our home for generations.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we had a...neighborly chat, I’m sure.”

“There’s nothing we can offer you, Riddle,” said Fleamont.

“Mum, Dad, please,” James pleaded.

“ _Listen_ to your son.”

“There’s nothing—” his father started to repeat, but Euphemia spoke over him. “Any soul alive in this storm would want shelter, dear. We should let the honored Wizen in.” She squeezed his father’s hand tightly, then let go. “I’ll put on the kettle.” Fleamont remained at the door, almost a statue.

Riddle smiled. “After you, James,” he said, and he waved his hand.

With a glance at his father, James crossed the threshold. “Oh James,” he heard his father mutter, “you’ve done it, you’ve killed us, my boy.”

His mother had a tea kettle boiling already. Her wandwork was precise, but the rest of her body betrayed an anxiety that James hoped would soon be alleviated. If they would just see who Riddle was, and what he _meant_...

Riddle took a seat. It was a nice seat, the nicest in the room. It was his mother’s in fact. After a moment, James sat on the couch. It felt so small, now. He remembered when it seemed bigger.

“We haven’t had the, the uh, the honor of having you here before, Wizen, so, ah, how do you take your tea?” Euphemia was normally much more graceful than this.

James’ father sat down at last, positioned quite clearly between Riddle and the rest of the room, and everyone in it. Including James himself, he noted with astonishment.

“Plain, if you will. No cream. No honey,” Riddle said, and Euphemia passed over a cup of tea. Riddle’s hand paused at the cup, long enough for him to stare into her eyes while his own flashed Gryffindor scarlet, and then he took it. “I thank you for not...adulterating the tea.” Euphemia balled her fists, and James shifted in his seat, but Riddle held up a hand and in the end James did nothing. He had to trust Riddle. There was nothing else to it but that.

“There is something of yours which I would like to borrow. I understand that James has already asked you on my behalf, and that you have denied him.”

“There is nothing we can offer you,” Fleamont said, his voice flat.

“On the contrary, Mr. Potter. You have a very special cloak.”

“I cannot offer you that.”

“I won’t try to entice you with money enough to make it worth your while, though it’s within my means. That smacks too much of a Slytherin’s greed, and you are no Slytherin. But we would be friends, if you did this for me, and there is nothing that will not do for my friends.”

“I’m afraid that friendship is not something I can offer, either.”

Euphemia bit her lip. “Dear.”

Fleamont spared her a glance, then turned his eyes back to Riddle, who took another sip of tea before he set it down and folded his hands over in his lap. “Do you love your son?”

His father inhaled sharply, but it was his mother who answered. “That’s never been in question.”

“James, do you love your parents?”

“O-Of course! What, why are you—”

"Please." Riddle held up a hand and turned back to Fleamont and Euphemia. "I can keep you safe. All of you. I have kept James out of harm's way till now. If he were the keeper of the cloak, then I could never assign him to any role where he might be endangered."

Fleamont made a dry, grating sound, an aborted laugh. “You must think I’m a fool. James would never be keeper of the cloak. You would. I can’t allow that.”

“Then we move on to Plan C.” With a swish and a swirl of Riddle’s wand, James was lifted in the air and his wand was blasted away. “Where is the cloak?” Riddle demanded, cold and firm.

James couldn’t speak. His jaw was locked.

“Not James,” his father pleaded. “Please...have mercy. Hasn’t he served you well?”

He couldn’t move.

“If you do not tell me then the boy dies!”

Fleamont visibly wavered. His hands trembled. He looked at James, then at Riddle, then—”Obliviate!” incanted Euphemia, and a blank look came over Fleamont’s face. “I do not know where the cloak is, nor how to retrieve it. Now, neither does my husband. We have nothing to offer you.”

“I beg to differ.”

With one smooth movement from Riddle’s wand, Euphemia collapsed bonelessly and James hit the wall behind him. Something crunched, pain sparked through his body, and darkness began to steal away his vision. Fleamont screamed, as if vocalizing what James, mute and frozen, could not, and Riddle, obscured by the couch, continued to speak.

“I do regret this.”

“Euphie, oh Euphie…” moaned James’ father, over the sounds of Euphemia’s gasping.

“Come now, Fleamont, you’re going to get blood on the carpet if you don’t staunch the flow. Oh, but you can’t cast anything, can you? Here, I’ll help. I can’t have you bleeding out too soon, can I?”

“I can’t give you what you want, Riddle. I don’t know where the cloak is anymore. Please, save her.”

“Obliviation can be broken. Let me show you how.”

Fleamont screamed again, more sharply than before, and James slipped out of consciousness.

When James awoke there was nothing to tell how much time had passed, but the night’s rain had not yet abated. Riddle was there, standing near the fireplace, running his wand over the mantle. In his left hand, something shimmered, like it had every color and none at all. He had the cloak.

He saw his wand on the ground, not too far away. There was a little bit of feeling in James’ fingers, and as he concentrated, more developed. Quietly, shoving a groan back down his throat before it could emerge, he shifted position, moved, and reached out for his wand. James was adept at silent casting, but he could barely _focus_ , his heart was beating so loudly Riddle must be able to hear it, and while the words of the Killing Curse floated through his mind he- he didn’t want to kill anyone. Not Riddle. Not if his parents might still…

Riddle slammed against the wall, and fell like a pile of bones.

James rose to his feet, approached Riddle—slowly, as though a misstep might kill him—and picked up the cloak, then turned to face his parents. It was hard to stay on his feet after that.

He rushed forward, and knelt beside his mother so quickly that it was almost a fall. She looked almost deflated, her limbs bent in strange angles, and her skin was cold and felt like loose rubber beneath his touch. And his father… Here were his hands, one still clutching a wand. Here was his scalp, his knee, a bit of crushed bone. James vomited.

His mother had been killed. He father had been butchered.

There was movement behind him. James moved, and a light raced past him, nearly where he had been a moment before.

There was room for many emotions in James’ mind: pain, and regret, and sorrow, and anger, and hate. But when he heard movement behind him, when an awakening Riddle only barely misaimed his first volley and James only barely dodged it, there was only a single truth, that he was in no condition to face Riddle, and a single driving thought— _away_.

The sensation of disapparition was pain and sickness, but it was nothing compared to what he was already feeling. In the next moment James was outside and far, far away from Paddock House. His stance was uneven, his weight was unbalanced, and he fell immediately, as if crumbling, and James realized that the feeling in one of his legs was gone.

 _I’ve splinched myself_ , he thought, with a giddiness that led into another thought. _I’m in shock_.

James heard footsteps, boots crunching on snow. A shape appeared, then resolved into clarity.

There was only one place to flee to, only one place where he could be assured of help.

“P-Professor. Help,” and the last thing he saw was Dumbledore’s wand, white and honeycombed with little carvings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This post on Spacebattles](https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/there-is-nothing-to-fear-harry-potter-au-gryffindor-voldemort.667057/page-2#post-49510758) regarding “what makes something Dark” may be worth linking to. In this case, the ritual is considered Dark because it (1) involves blood and (2) is associated with the dark wizards of the Balkan Peninsula.
> 
> The spell brackium emendo is meant to fix bones but, as Lockhart demonstrated, it is capable of outright removing bones. Riddle is more than capable of casting it as intended, of course, but he also knows how to cast it “wrong” and, for the crime of frustrating his plans, Euphemia clearly deserved to die by suffocation while listening to Riddle torture her husband.
> 
> Riddle has a particular fondness for using healing spells toward harmful ends, as seen by his use of an entrail-evacuating curse in “Men Who Are Resolved”.
> 
> In the movies, the Elder Wand is a dark color and, oddly, made of English oak, not elder. I’m happy to pilfer from the movies but elder wood is pale, so I’ve described his wand as “white and honeycombed with little carvings” so that it’s recognizable as the Elder Wand without needlessly giving it a weird color.


	4. Chapter 4

The dim light seemed near-blindingly brilliant when James came to. There was an ache around his knee and on his chest, and he was sore all over. He was in a bed, soft and comfortable, so light that he was almost floating on air, but the sheet that covered him, as thin as it was, felt unbearably heavy.

Sitting in a chair on his left, Dumbledore leaned over and placed a hand on James’ shoulder. “I would say that you should count yourself fortunate, but I regret that things are not so simple,” he said. “You should be aware, if you are not already, that your parents are dead.”

James nodded mutely and noted, with a sort of satisfaction that came from knowing that the pain was deserved, that it hurt to move. He hadn’t expected Dumbledore to say anything different about his parents, nor even considered that they might somehow be alive, but to hear it from someone else was a dagger through his heart. James had seen it himself, could see it even now in his mind’s eye, but to be told it as news meant that he couldn’t try to pass it off as a terrible dream.

Only now, knowing that he couldn’t lie to himself, did James realize how desperately he would have liked to do so.

Dumbledore gestured quickly at the bed. The sheet pulled away, and James saw that his left leg terminated suddenly about an inch below the knee. Dully, James looked back to Dumbledore. He tried to say something, but only opened his mouth a few times, nothing coming out, until, finally, he managed, “But I can still _feel_ it.” As if that really meant anything.

“That would be the Phantom Limb Charm, which I will maintain for you for the time being unless there is an objection. I have been told that it is easier to reconcile oneself to the loss of a limb with this spell, especially if a prosthesis is used.”

There was a quiet moment again, in which James struggled to voice his next question and Dumbledore, whether in patience or from calculation, waited for him to speak.

“What happened?”

“I cannot say for sure what occurred before I found you, shivering and half-dead at the school’s Anti-Apparition Line, even if I can make some guesses, but as for what came next, I brought you to a secure location and then arranged for the matter of your disappearance to be...settled.”

Dumbledore looked over at James’ legs, all one-point-five of them, before continuing them. “It is a difficult business to make a transfiguration permanent—speaking broadly, this is what separates transfiguration from alchemy—but I am, if I can say so, a competent alchemist. After I ensured that you would be tended to, I rendered an old goat into an exact imitation of your body, performed a few spells to make sure that the product was appropriately battered, and deposited it, your wand, and _part_ of an old invisibility cloak, in the Kielder Forest, where they will hopefully be found by a Death Eater before too long. They have been looking for you,” added Dumbledore.

At any other time James would have suffered to hear that his wand had been lost, but it was not even the half of what he deserved. He had given so much, done so much, for Riddle, but the nightmare which he had seen at his parents’ house, the thing which had slaughtered his mother and father and turned on him, had always been there, and his parents had known it. How had he been so blind? How had he let himself not see?

“I suspect that Riddle wants to make sure that you are well and truly dead,” Dumbledore continued, and James started. He hadn’t expected that anyone would think he was dead. “The story is that Bellatrix Lestrange, her fiance, and his brother, attacked you and your parents, murdered you all, and—”

“But that’s not what happened! Why would anyone—”

Dumbledore held up a hand, and James quieted. “It seems that they were overheard talking about the deed, and though Bellatrix Lestrange was gravely hurt in both soul and body in the fight that ensued soon after, enough of her mind remained intact for the DMLE to go through and settle the matter to their satisfaction.”

“She wasn’t there.”

“Riddle is adept at the False Memory Charm.”

“Then we have to tell someone. Sirius, at least! He has to know that I’m still alive.” And that it was James’ fault.

Dumbledore shook his head. “You were holding onto an invisibility cloak when I found you. Would it be accurate to say that this is the same cloak which you used in your schoolboy days, and that this cloak is what Tom was after?”

“He said he wanted to...research it. I don’t know why it was so important, why he h-had to… I _believed_ in him, Professor.”

“As do many. Tom inspires it easily,” Dumbledore said softly. “I cannot say, just yet, why he wants your cloak, but the fact that you are still alive is something which he _cannot_ be allowed to learn. As it stands, Tom believes, or soon will believe, that you splinched yourself across a considerable distance and that the cloak has been lost. Invisibility cloaks can be very difficult to find if you do not know where they are, and your supposed remains cover a very large area. He might spend years searching and still think that the cloak is somewhere there to be found.

“Why? if we could just tell people that I’m alive, prove that Bellatrix didn’t do anything, then we could show them…”

Dumbledore shook his head. “The case is not as clear cut as you think. Bellatrix remembers killing you, but the memories of a tortured, broken woman are hardly reliable in their details. The Reversal Charm can reveal the spells in Tom’s wand, but that will mean little if we do not test the right wand. Legilimency and veritaserum could reveal the truth, if we were granted authority to administer these things, but only the truth as Tom knows it—and I, regrettably, have it on good authority that the combination of Tom’s proficiency in mental magic and his inclination toward self-ablation mean that, as far as we can ascertain, he is both willing and able to remove—and, presumably, later retrieve—any memories which do not suit his current circumstances.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that, when it is necessary for Tom Riddle to believe something, he can make himself believe it.”

“But it could convince a few people, couldn’t it?”

“It undoubtedly would, at the cost of letting Riddle know that you were alive and your family’s cloak was not lost in the wilderness. This exchange would not be to our advantage.”

“Is my cloak really that important?”

“If Tom desires it,” Dumbledore said noncommittally, “then there must be something to the matter.” He rose from his chair. “Rest, now. We can speak more this evening.”

* * *

It started with a tingle. The minutes advanced in tight formation until James lost track of them. He didn’t know whether it had been hours yet or just _an_ hour, only that there were twelve rows of tiles on the ceiling, and fifteen columns, and that Tile 4F had a dirty smudge on it that was larger by far than any of the other smudges.

Somewhere in the course of all that counting and comparing, the tingle grew from a mere oddity to a downright uncomfortable warmth, as though James were laying beside a fireplace. He shifted position and, careful not to reveal his legs again or even look in their direction, cast off some of his blanket. It did nothing to cool him.

The door opened again, and before James could ask anything of Dumbledore, someone else came through. His movements were not confident, but neither was he skulking, and he shut the door behind him with a soft nudge of his foot. He stood silently for a moment, his expression unreadable. In his hands was a tray with a bowl, its contents unknown but for the fact that they were hot enough to give steam.

“Sn— _Snape_?” It’s almost enough to make James forget the heat. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my house, _Potter_.” Snape’s lips curl slightly into a fraction of a sneer. “And that is my guest bed.”

He did not come any closer.

“I must be the first to ever grace it with my presence then,” spits James.

“If you’re one of the first, it’s only because of the escalation of hostilities precipitated two nights ago. But I’m sure that you won’t be the last dying man to lie here.”

“What do you—hostilities? Dying? What are you, what are you talking about? Two nights? What? I don’t…”

Was it just the shock of the moment, or was the heat in his cheat more intense than ever?

Snape’s voice was very quiet. “I thought Dumbledore had told you everything?”

“...I thought that too.”

It was disquieting to think that he and Snape might be of the same mind at this moment, however slightly, however temporarily.

Snape went on, his eyes still fixed on James. “But yes, we’re all needing to extend ourselves somewhat to new arenas, considering this new spate of violence and bloodshed. Congratulations appear to be in order. I don’t know what you did precisely, but you managed to shift the political climate further towards open war.”

“I didn’t…” No, that was a lie. He’d done a lot of things. Chief among them, he was the reason that his parents were dead. “Dumbledore said that my parents were dead. That _I’m_ dead. Out there.”

“Yes. And you will continue to be, as I hope Dumbledore has informed you.” Snape was still not moving. “In here, you are only my guest.” He smiled, very slightly. “Is that worse, I wonder?”

There was a sharp, hot pain, like somebody had shoved a fire poker through his chest, and it took all that James had to not convulse in front of Snape. “I… It hurts,” he said, the words spilling out on their own, as if his mouth had no master beyond itself.

“Your leg, or your chest?” Snape’s expression was suddenly flat again, all business. “Be specific.”

“What? My—My chest. It’s…” Curse it all, even in front of Snape, he couldn’t keep quiet, not when the pain was like this. “Like _fire_ ,” James said, nearly gasping in the wake of another agonizing pulse of heat.

Snape walked over, covering the distance between them in two quick strides. He shoved the bowl into James’ hands. It wasn’t soup, but some kind of opaque yellow potion, steaming and stinking like turpentine. “Drink.”

“What, and let you poison me with some sphinx’s diarrheic slime?” Was this why he felt so awful? Had Snape been doing something to him, sneaking in whenever Dumbledore wasn’t around to protect—”

“Drink it, you _stubborn_ _fool_. This is the only thing that’s keeping you alive long enough for Dumbledore to interrogate!”

“Keeping me alive? What’s going on, Snape? What’s happening to me?” His left arm shot out at Snape, to grip his robes or slap the bowl away, James didn’t know, but it fell, limp and pained and useless, before hitting its mark.

Snape pointed a long, thin finger to the center of James’ chest. “Your beloved Riddle has planted a lit ember in your heart, a curse that will consume you alive if not kept regularly at bay. Your Mark was black like char when I treated you first, eating into the surrounding skin.” Snape paused, his eyes dark yet shining with pride. “I had to improvise on a broomstick, as it were, to come up with something to treat you in the beginning and douse those flames for more than a few minutes. So, are you still going to refuse it? Or do you want to know how deep that curse will burn before it kills you?”

James held his head up high, or at least tried to, and took the bowl with two weak and trembling hands, and drank. It tasted fouler than it smelled.

“Happy?” The pain did start to recede away, even if he felt weaker than ever before.

“Hardly. You’re still in my house.” Snape retrieved the bowl from James and made as if to go, then paused. “Dinner will be brought to you at seven. Salmon pie, or at any rate Marlene’s latest attempt at it.”

Already feeling better as the burning sensation continued to fade, James snorted. “Are you my butler, then? My own personal house-elf?”

Snape stood with his back to James. Then, “I am under exceedingly specific instruction regarding your care, Potter. Do not tempt me to disobey these instructions more than I already wish to. Lily would be quite displeased if, distracted by such thoughts, I added a touch too much burnt lime to your potion. Should such a travesty occur, I’m afraid that the resulting admixture might cause your teeth to turn into spiders, and your bowels to strangle you in your sleep.”

“Lily’s here!? Lily Evans?” Quickly, James sat up, and just as quickly, his strength failed him, and his head fell back to the pillow.

“Of course that’s the only part you heard. Yes, I do seem to be running a boarding house as of late. At least there aren’t any children underfoot.”

Snape left before an appropriate retort could be summoned up, and then James was alone once more with only the damnable ceiling tiles for company.

James felt sick, empty, heavy with the crushing weight of what had happened, what he’d done. He almost wished Snape had stayed, just to give him a reprieve from his own thoughts.

He lifted a hand to his chest, resting it just above his heart. The pain was gone. It did not burn. Was it really going to kill him?

He grit his teeth, fingers curling into a fist above the blackened Mark. “No,” he said aloud. “It isn’t over for me.”

The shadows in his room offered no reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join us on the Discord server: <https://discord.gg/xjCBgff>.
> 
> Splinching yourself into many pieces is possible, though very unusual.
> 
> “Burnt lime” is another term for quicklime. Snape is working with some dangerous ingredients.
> 
> Marlene McKinnon lived and died off-screen in canon, and we’re not even sure what she was like, but Lily cried for an entire night after learning of her death, so it’s reasonable enough to assume that they were friends.
> 
> Riddle is not able to track people through the Dark Mark. The idea that Voldemort could do so appears to be fanon but, regardless, that's not something which Riddle made a part of his Mark (just as Voldemort's Mark lacks any "flip a figurative switch and your Mark will slowly kill you" capability). 
> 
> As it turns out, “on the same page” is a relatively recent expression, and an originally USian expression at that. I went through half a dozen variations before settling on “of the same mind.”


End file.
